Covered Dish
by fragrantfields
Summary: When King Silas realizes all he's given up to save his youngest son, comfort-and an alibi of sorts-comes from an unexpected source. For the H/C Bingo on LJ, prompt "low blood sugar/hypoglycemia"
He looked down at his shaking hands. Not the hands of a king at all, no sureness, no deftness. Chewed nails and ragged cuticles, a scrape along one knuckle. The hands of the soldier he'd been once…but even then, they had been strong and steady.

Now the hands were those of a terrified father: impotent, bent towards each other as if they wanted to be clasped in prayer, no matter what he wanted.

King Silas indulged himself in just that, a quick folding, a whispered prayer, hoping Rose wouldn't notice if she walked in.

Rose.

Still so beautiful. So dutiful, in giving him a son and daughter. And if the son was…imperfect, full of traits no king could hold, and if his daughter had sworn herself far too early to God, he couldn't blame Rose for that. They were his children as well, and he recognized his appetites in one, his reckless fervency in the other.

And the third child? He wished he knew what the full inheritance of that child would be. Maybe Thomasina….

He looked at his hands again. Out the expanse of the plate glass window, he saw the wind pick up, buffeting odd papers, twigs and leaves against the sides of the fountain, the barricades. He fancied the same wind drove his tremors. External forces, pushing against him. He knew how to deal with those.

Block them out. Crush them. Build walls against them. Send armies to put them down. He'd been doing it for decades. God wouldn't desert him now.

 _Who's deserting who, Silas?_ The insidious whisper echoed in his head. _You asked for a sign. You begged to make a sacrifice, you said you'd do anything._

The whisper took on a mocking tone. _Did you think God would let you off so easily? Let you make some meaningless gesture?_

The taste of rich meat, stewed for hours in a spicy bean-filled broth flooded his senses. A gentle brown hand, stroking his brow, another cupping his cheek, a soft voice telling him it would be all right, they'd be all right.

Telling him what she'd planted in the small kitchen garden he'd tilled, his royal hands digging in the dirt, dropping in the tiny seeds, patting the soil over them.

Asking him to come to bed, as if the countryside cottage was his real home, stone and mortar and hardwood, homespun curtains framing the night sky in the kitchen window.

He wondered if the shaking would stop if he punched the glazed glass in front of him, pounded his fists against the tinted, reinforced, bullet proof expanse between him and the rest of the world. Or would it just serve to catch God's attention, suggest his sacrifice, his vow to never see his son, never see his Helen again, had not been made with a clear heart?

Sweat beaded his forehead, matting a long lock of hair. He saw again Seth's small body in the hospital bed, Helen's eyes pleading, the words unspoken but still loud as church bells.

 _You're the king. God favors you in so much. Can't you get him to favor you in this one little thing, just this one boy? Isn't there a way?_

If he'd known the price asked, would he have given her a last kiss, a final embrace?

He let himself imagine for a moment a life without position, no responsibility to anything beyond his wife and child, his fields, his home. Just a man.

The sky darkened and he caught the reflection of the pictures behind him on his desk.

Jack.

Michelle.

His stomach roiled and he pressed his aching head against the glass. Could he repudiate his other children? He'd almost lost the one, then the other already.

The needs of one against the needs of so many others. It was no contest. He'd drunk from the cup God offered. They all would live, and if the light in his eyes died out, his heart now an abandoned hearth…he chuckled, mirthless and grim. He would be imprisoned in this hell of his own making as much as the once-king Abaddon was imprisoned behind dank stone walls.

He turned and collapsed into his chair. The risers of seats swam in front of him, the flags at each corner of the room swirling as if the wind had made its way inside. His palms left damp imprints in the shining wood of his desk.

 _God, I want-_

"Silas?" Rose's voice was quiet, barely audible over the storm outside, but it still carried. She'd learned what they'd dubbed her "queen voice" while he was still in battle fatigues. Even so young, younger than Helen was now…

"Are you all right? You look pale." She came over and perched on the edge of his desk, staring down at him.

"I'm fine." He glanced up, stopping midway. How could he look into those pale blue-grey eyes without cursing them for not being gold-flecked brown?

She took his chin in one elegant hand and raised his head. "Your skin is clammy, you're shaking…Silas, when did you last eat something?"

He vaguely remembered breakfast, still in his pajamas, making eggs and toast for his royal family. When had that been? Yesterday? This week?

"I don't remember." He pulled away from her. "I've been busy. The border skirmishes, the treasury…the press …"

"And your blood sugar has probably dropped to your toes, going by the way you look. Silas, you have to eat something." She moved closer until she was sitting in front of him, as at ease on his desk as she was on her throne.

"Not hungry," he growled. The growl faded to a whimper and he closed his eyes, willing her to get up and leave him to his misery. Maybe he'd just…pass out. So tempting. An end to the thoughts racing through his head, his heart.

Rose gathered him closer, pulling his head into her lap. The scent of her custom perfume, the wool of her skirt, and something uniquely Rose enveloped him. For just that moment, it was just them, Silas and Rose again, fighting for Gilboa, young and brave against Abaddon and his army. The urge to tell her, ask her to grieve with him was overwhelming.

 _The son we never talk about, the son I don't know for sure you know about, was dying. And I told God I'd do anything, anything, if he let him live, as fathers do. And the price, Rose…the price, to never see him or his mother again…it sickens me, makes me sweat, makes me shake, trying to hold it in._

He stayed silent, the words hovering around him.

She stroked his hair, her touch gentler than he deserved.

"We're getting some orange juice in you, Silas. No arguing." She feathered her fingers along the back of his neck. "And I'll send Thomasina to the countryside." He felt, more than heard, her voice catch. "I'll have her get you some of that cassoulet you like."

Silas allowed himself one deep sob—he couldn't have held it back if the fate of the country depended on it—then forced himself to breathe…in, out. His face rested against his wife's stomach, and the slight trembling he felt put him in mind of listening to each child's heartbeat, when they'd all been safe in their mothers' wombs.

Jack.

Michelle.

Seth.

She slipped off his desk and tugged him from his chair. "Come on, Silas. Kitchen. Now." She placed a steadying arm around his shoulder.

"Rose, I—"

She stopped and put her finger to his lips.

"You shouldn't talk when your blood sugar's low, Silas." Her eyes had darkened to the grey of the storm. "You might say things you don't mean." She turned him towards the carved oak doors again.

"Kings can't afford to do that," she continued, soft, sympathetic.

Silas thought of golden brown eyes one last time, blinked hard and stared at the grey sky outside the window. It had begun to lighten, the storm fading.

"I know."

His hands were steady again when he wrapped an arm around her waist and they walked from the room.

He wondered if cassoulet would taste the same when eaten in a palace.


End file.
